


Message and a Bottle

by gul



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-07 01:16:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3155402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gul/pseuds/gul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will checks up on Matthew post-Season 2, to wish him a happy new year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Message and a Bottle

It was New Year’s Eve Day and Will Graham was spending it alone in his house.

He had spent much of the past months alone in his safe ship of a house, since his release from the hospital. The night nurse had been dismissed, and a local boy hired to make weekly grocery runs, with more and more whiskey requested each time. After never answering the door, the visitors had evaporated from a deluge to nothing. 

Messages from friends were all he had to navigate around, now, other than the occasional hate mail or interview request. He was safe in his ship but 

Freddie had the (legally imposed) grace to stay away after the picture incident at the hospital. Jack had his own wounds to tend and wife to mourn so there was little from him except what the FBI and his own warmth courtesy required—but still, a little. Hardly anything at all from Abigail. She sent him a get-well card from her own hospital room, but she was very busy changing her name and moving away. There came voice messages and an actual Christmas card from Alana. She joked on the back to him that the card was a generic winter scene because she wouldn’t be the kind of Grinch to send out a current picture of herself, and her visiting sister (in town to help as long as needed) didn’t want to feature on it either. 

Will doubted he would hear very much more from her. He could hardly blame her. He displayed the card for only a day before hiding it in a box of unopened correspondence.

Nothing from Hannibal, of course. He was far away, across every kind of ocean. And the scars he had left on Will had knit themselves into their own writing, their own message.

As for Will, he retreated further and further out to sea, where nothing and no one could reach him. And mostly he felt safe, living off the liquid of solitude and whiskey, except for a strange sense of something missing.

It was New Year’s Eve, a wet starry night black against the gold of his drink that he realized what—or rather, who, was missing.

Matthew Brown.

Matthew had made no attempt to contact him. Understandable before Hannibal had been captured, but he would have expected something by now. In fact, the last time they had spoken had been when Will had asked for the favour of killing Hannibal for him. 

The memory of Matthew had been bobbing up like a cork in his increasingly soused consciousness. How lovely his favour had been; how it might have looked. How it would have felt to be there. Since there was no murder there were no pictures, and he had to rely on Jack and Alana’s memory and willingness to remember. Hannibal, because he was embarrassed and because he knew it would gratify Will, had withheld his own details—except what slipped out every so often in one of his petulant asides.

Matthew’s attempted murder of Hannibal had been at the pool. Cut wrists and crucified and hung, against the shine of water and blood on the dark marble. Hannibal was gasping, bleeding—simultaneously godlike in his hanging and crucifixion, and ignominious slipping to stand on an unstable bucket. Matthew had eschewed Christian imagery altogether and stood pale and bare and triumphant, his muscles and skin like carved white marble, a divine Greek statue come to murderous life. It must have been beautiful.

The feverish dreamed imaged came unbidden to Will’s mind—Matthew’s arms and chest all hewn white muscle with dark flecks of Hannibal’s blood like an inverse night sky, and his gleeful face as he moved the moon and stars for Will’s benefit.

Will had found out a little bit about what happened to Brown since that incident. With the Chesapeake Ripper identified as Hannibal, Matthew as his attempted killer became more hero than criminal. Matthew became the man who tried to take down Hannibal—who would have, had the police not stopped him. Who would have saved lives. Will was not sure about what charges Brown would eventually be facing, but with Matthew’s knowledge of Chilton’s illegal activities and popular opinion regarding Hannibal, he knew they had been seriously reduced.

Will also knew where he was living.

He took the bottle of champagne he had been saving out of the fridge, and contemplated the dark bottle. The lack of contact felt like a riptide, pulling him out and away. 

He thought of how he had used Matthew—although, as he had told himself again and again, Matthew had volunteered to be used. (An ugly rationalization.) Will felt strange, and sick. The sky outside seemed a black stretch of tar with oily streetlight glints for stars. No message in any bottle could have reached him anyway, he realised, in such a sticky black waste. He’d have to deliver one himself.

Matthew had moved to a small house in a small residential area outside of town. His book deal with Freddie had proved lucrative, and of course he didn’t need to live by the hospital anymore.

The plan was, drop the champagne off in front of Matthew’s door with a scrawled thank-you note, and leave.

The plan failed instantly.

Will stumbled on the icy porch steps, and cried out, and then cursed for crying out. The bottle clattered out of his hands and towards the door but did not break—then the front door opened.

Matthew Brown stared down at Will, blinking but otherwise expressionless. He had sweet delicate features, and would cock his head like a bird to stare with his round blue eyes.

“Mr. Graham,” he said, reaching out his hand to help him up. He was surprisingly strong, and so pale in the starlight and snow he seemed like some ice spirit. Graham thanked him, only cursing a little as he slipped on the ice and had to grip Matthew for balance.

“Sorry,” Will said. “Still clumsy from my—I’m still healing. Shouldn’t be walking much, actually.”

Matthew looked out at Will’s car, parked crookedly on the curb. “Shouldn’t be driving, either. Probably shouldn’t be here at all. But, come on in anyway.”

He held the door open for Will, who was so embarrassed he had obediently marched in before he realized he could have said no.

Brown’s house more or less matched the profile Will had of him. The place was neatly kept with little furniture but a lot of artwork and a nice computer in a tidy office visible through an open office door. 

Shy boy, Hannibal had called him, and Will felt a slight pang of guilt as he looked at the lonely place—whatever pathologies Matthew had, he didn’t show them to others often.

“Happy new year,” Will blurted, handing him the champagne, slippery from its fall in the snow.

Matthew looked at him a long while before he took it. His eyes were very bright; he was very quick—his gaze chilled Will like ice water. “Thanks,” he said with his slight lisp, taking it. “Um. Sit down,” he said, gesturing to the sparse living room with a single couch. He stood, a little awkward. He was obviously unused to having guests. “I’ll get some glasses.”

Will sat down and wondered (he had wondered this before) if he was trying to commit an elaborate sort of suicide. 

But Matthew returned with no weapon—just two glasses of champagne and the bottle. He handed it to Will before sitting next to him. “So. Can I see?” 

“…See?”

“What he did to you. The clinician in me, sorry.” His tone always eager; never embarrassed. A man at home with himself; at home in hiding.

“Oh.” 

“Does it still hurt? Allow me.” Matthew reached out to pull up Will’s shirt, his cool fingers tentative so as not to harm, but lingering. Will blushed at the touch, and blushed further when he realised he was blushing.

Matthew whistled, low and impressed, before pulling back. “Looks as good as what I left on the Ripper.” He tsked. “I could have saved you that, you know. If you had let me.”

“Matthew, I didn’t tell—“

“Maybe not directly. But you’re pretty willing to let other people get their hands dirty for you.” He winked. It was remarkable how his bright sweet face could go dead. “I’d know.”

Will looked away, took a sip of his champagne. Will had spent so long contemplating his own wounds that he had forgotten the same ones he had carved in others. He felt like he had kicked one of his dogs, who had just been trying to please him. “I’m sorry. I really am sorry, Matthew.”

“What’s to be sorry for?” he said, back to his quiet cheerfulness. “I offered to do you a favor. And I did! And you’re not here to apologise, are you.” He raised his glass. He had a impish grin that was contagious. “You’re here to help me celebrate!”

“Yeah. Happy new year,” Will repeated again wanly. Why was he here? Was it just to alleviate his guilt? He didn’t think so.

“Not just that. Most of my charges have been dropped.”

“That’s…that’s good.”

“Blamed on the Ripper. Which is funny, you know?”

“Why is that funny,” Will asked, choking a bit on the too-sweet champagne. He missed his whiskey, which burned, and was for drowning, not celebrating.

“Yeah. I told him his crimes would become mine. Looks like mine became his. And yours. Manipulating a poor man like you did, making him think that murdering Hannibal Lecter was the only way to stop the killing.”

“Is that how I framed it.”

“Yes, you should read my book. It’s pretty good.”

“So you’re—you’re doing ok.”

He poured himself, and then Will, another glass. “Yeah, I’ll just be watched the rest of my entire life.”

Privately Will did not feel this was a bad thing, but the fact remained he was very willing to let Matthew be as long as he served Will’s own purposes. “Can you forgive me?"

Matthew waited a long while before answering, staring frozen. “Like I said, I was doing a favour for someone I thought was a friend. Of course, you were nothing like I hoped.”

Will rubbed his healing scar. “I’ve heard that a lot, lately.”

The other man laughed. “No, you’re just like me in most of the ways that count, whatever you may tell yourself. But listen—I could have gotten him, how does that feel? And you couldn’t. You had a million chances—“

“No, I didn’t—“

“I had never spoken to the man outside the hospital and I had him. Lying’s bad for recovery, you know,” he said, mimicking Chilton’s self-satisfied tone so well that Will almost laughed.

Matthew continued after downing his glass. This time, Will poured for them both. “Both of us, we’re both good at things that maybe a lot of people aren’t good at. We both see things in ways most people don’t. And it’s lonely. I was really happy when I found you. I looked up to you. I wanted—well. I wanted you to admire me too.”

“I’m sorry—“

He laughed, and Will was reminded of Mason, who rarely got angry but instead delighted at unpleasant situations, even involving himself. “I don’t want your apology! Stop it. Just a misunderstanding, on both our parts. See, you didn’t realise that unlike you I could really do it. And I didn’t realise that unlike me, you have an insane desire to—to, I don’t know. Be consumed. Drown. Be defeated. Whatever you want to call it. You want to drown, to be pulled down by everything deep and give up. And I, I wanna—I don’t know, you’re better at speaking than I am. I want to—to fly, I guess, above it all, above everything else.” 

“You’re saying I wanted to fail. I wanted to die.”

Matthew shook Will’s shoulder, a little harder than was polite. “Like I said. Just a misunderstanding. Here,” he said, pouring the last of the bottle into their glasses. “Let’s celebrate, like you also wanted.” He winked.

“I wanted…” but Will’s voice was quiet and false, and he could not meet Matthew’s eyes which shone piercing and harsh like floodlights on water, searching for those who had fallen overboard. 

“Are you lonely now, Mr. Graham? Will?” Matthew asked. “Are you guilty?”

Will twisted his lips. He shouldn’t have come. 

(But, how could he have done anything else?)

(Were these desires he was feeling Matthew’s, or his own? Did he too often excuse himself by blaming his own urges on another? Did it ultimately matter?)

A question actually spoken roused him from his thoughts:

“Did you come here to apologise, or absolve yourself?” Matthew’s smile was gone. “They’re not the same thing at all, you know.”

“I know.” He drank the last of the champagne, and looked into his cup. “I should go. I’m sorry I’ve taken your time.”

“No, I’m sorry, actually,” Matthew said. He helped him up with tremendous gentleness, retrieving his coat and helping him into it. “I’ve been rude. It was…really great of you to come over. Really great. I appreciate it. I usually celebrate New Year’s alone. I celebrate most things alone, like you, I guess.” He shrugged, twisted his lips. “I still like you, you know, Will Graham. Even if you like Hannibal better.”

Will started to protest, but Matthew had leaned forward to press his lips to his—firm, tender, and Will hummed slightly as he realised he had always wondered how those thin mobile lips might feel against his. 

But just as Will started to respond (out of guilt? Lust? Anger? Was there any difference anymore, really?) Matthew pulled back with his half-grin and eyes wide. 

“It was midnight,” he shrugged, and Will laughed. 

Matthew opened the front door to the dark and cold. The white snow yard gave very suddenly into black, like Will was at the edge of a waterfall about to fall off and down into further black, into cliffs below. Will wanted to protest that he didn’t have to go, not really, but he was already being carried out on the tide.

The moon like ice in a pool of black champagne, the bottle long discarded. Matthew would be just fine, he realized. He couldn't say the same about himself.

“Happy New Year, Will Graham,” Matthew called. “I hope this year you get everything you ever wanted.”

Not unlike the slice of a knife, it was a moment before the sting of the message sunk in. But for that moment, like being held on the crest of the wave about to break, Will smiled, and felt peace.

**Author's Note:**

> this is a secret santa gift for the lovely hermaia-moira.tumblr.com


End file.
